


Blame It On Midnight

by doctor__idiot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1x16 "Shadow", Episode Related, First Kiss, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why do you think I drag you everywhere?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame It On Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Orginally written for the [Wincest Fan Fic Network](http://wincestfanficnetwork.tumblr.com). The prompt was to take a season 1 scene and turn it into Wincest.
> 
> Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Most of the dialog is taken from the show. Unbeta'd.
> 
> Title from: "Shame On the Moon" by Bob Seger

“Why do you think I drag you everywhere?”

There is something in Dean’s eyes that wasn’t there before, Sam is sure of it. What he isn’t sure of is what it means.

“I mean, why do you think I came and got you at Stanford in the first place?”

“‘cause Dad was in trouble,” Sam says without thinking and Dean’s face hardens. “‘cause you wanted to find the thing that killed Mom.”

He knows that isn’t the only reason but he isn’t about to get into that now. Even if it seems as if Dean wants them to get into it. Sam doesn’t know what to make of that.

Dean turns away from him, dragged a hand across his mouth. “Yes, that, but it’s more than that, man.”

Sam’s breathing stumbles and he desperately wishes he could see Dean’s face. He was good at reading Dean’s eyes, not his shoulders. Not like Dean doesn’t know that.

“You. And me.” There is a pause before Dean adds, “And Dad,” and Sam thinks, maybe they aren’t acknowledging anything after all.

“I mean, I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again.”

Dean sounds so desperate and, irrationally, Sam notices himself getting angry. He exhales, clamps down on the arising flame, swallows, replies, “Dean, we _are_ a family.”

But they aren’t, not really. John is still in the wind and Sam isn’t sure the man would show up if they actually needed him. If their lives depended on it. Dean is so hell-bent on keeping what’s left of them together, Sam feels like the walls are closing in on him.

When he thinks about it, they haven’t truly been a family since Mary died.

He sighs. “I’d do anything for you. But things will never be the way they were before.” Both of them changed too much. Sometimes Sam wishes he could go back to the time he was four and curled up in Dean’s lap at night, falling asleep to his big brother’s voice clumsily wrapping around the words to whatever book he got them from the library that week.

“Could be.”

Dean looks heartbroken and damn if it doesn’t break Sam a little, too. “I don’t want them to be.”

It’s easy to misunderstand because of all the things Sam doesn’t say.

_I can’t be around Dad, you know that. We’d kill each other._

_You and me, we didn’t work before but maybe we can when this is all over._

What he ends up saying is, “I’m not gonna live this life forever.”

Dean's shoulders slump, eyes down. Sam couldn’t possibly feel worse about doing this to his brother but this is something Dean needs to hear. He knows Dean wants them together more than anything but they can never be a unit if Dean doesn’t understand Sam’s choice.

“When this is all over, you’re gonna have to let me go my own way.”

Dean trails his eyes back up and the height difference between them is never more pronounced than when Dean looks at Sam from below his eyelashes. His jaw clicks, lips curling, and it shouldn’t be attractive, not now, not at all.

Sam huffs a frustrated breath and drops to the bed, next to Dean’s handgun and the unsheathed knife he threw carelessly onto the bedspread earlier.

Dean doesn’t look all there when he nods slowly, eyes unfocused, and says, “Okay. I will.”

The shine in his eyes betrays his words but Sam doesn’t feel like pointing it out. His own eyes drift shut and he digs his thumbs into the sockets until he sees stars. All of a sudden, he feels about eighty years old.

Dean steps into his space then, pushes between Sam’s legs until he is so close and Sam is completely engulfed by his scent. Eyes shoot wide open.

“Dean—” The words _What the hell_ are on his tongue but Dean is faster.

“I said ‘okay’ and I meant it,” he says. Leather, old spice, and gun oil fill Sam’s nose, overwhelm his brain, and he struggles to recall their conversation.

Dean’s hands are under Sam’s jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. Callouses raise goosebumps through the thin fabric of his T-shirt.

His gaze locks with his brother’s and suddenly Sam knows what name to put to what has been open and right there in Dean’s eyes all this time.

_Fear._ Sheer and unadulterated panic.

Sam knows the ever-fearless, gun-slinging macho attitude is ninety percent crap ninety percent of the time but he can’t actually remember the last time he saw Dean this terrified. Sam isn’t sure what is worse. Realizing how deep-rooted Dean’s fear of rejection, of being alone, of getting left behind really is, or knowing that he is the one to blame.

It probably goes all the way back to that demon and Mary’s death but Sam knows it wasn’t fair to Dean when he left. He has not yet been able to make Dean understand that he never meant to leave him, god, never him. He wanted to get away from the bloody, restless life of a hunter. Wanted to try to build something on his own, something that was just his.

Sam still can’t see himself growing old doing this but maybe he understands a little more about what it means that it is in their blood, his own included. He also knows that it will become harder and harder to leave the longer he doesn’t.

He doesn’t really know what he is doing, instinctively reacting to Dean as he always has, when he puts his hands on Dean’s hips. All he knows is that he needs to touch and Dean is warm and he hasn’t been with anyone since Jess and, Jesus, that seems like a whole lifetime ago to him now.

Then Dean bends down a little and his lips, hot and damp, meet Sam’s and Sam understands that this isn’t about Jess at all. 

Jess belongs to a different life, a different Sam. She belongs to Stanford and to a Sam who likes basketball. Who bandages nothing more than a paper cut. To a Sam who might have existed, but was never entirely real.

Dean was long before that. Has been Sam’s most important and maybe only constant and suddenly it sinks in how much Sam _missed_ him.

It doesn't make Jess’s death any less painful but Dean’s mouth and hands do an amazing job of at least temporarily dulling that constant ache.


End file.
